Middle Earth Reclaimed
by AlexeCinz
Summary: A young archaeologist is puzzled by exceptional finds in an excavation site in Asia. Then a fair-haired stranger arrives on the scene to deepen the mystery.... (AU/post-LotR)
1. "The land has shifted since those times....

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~ 

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An Alternate Universe fic, though it's probably more of a post-LotR :). I've been told the ideas here might be disturbing, but it is written with great respect for Tolkien's works. All the characters belong to JRR Tolkien, naturally. Thanks for reading. 

Genre: Mystery/Drama   
Rating: PG for violence -_-;; 

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Night in the tropics was humid, stifling. The young man's health had always been somewhat poor, and now he struggled to fill his lungs as they pushed past waxy green leaves and clinging vines. 

"Look here..." He stopped, bent forward and hugged his chest to catch his breath. "Did we have to come this way...?" 

His companion regarded him with the same sad expression that never varied, and nodded. "Yes, this is the only way. Come now - you were more eager when we started our journey." As always, there was something archaic about his speech, but it was not an accent or tone that could be put on in pretence. 

"Of course I'm eager. If what you've been telling me - " the young man looked up in sudden suspicion " - is the _truth_." 

They stood there for a long moment. The first of the two men had dark hair and pale skin, his eyes grey and narrowed with uncertainty. The other had golden hair, tied back with a leather strip. His blue eyes seemed almost colourless in the artificial beam of their torchlights, and his face carried no lines, but whether he was younger or older was difficult to say. At last he made this reply: "It is not in my nature to lie, Adan." 

"Stop bloody calling me that. Let's just get to the place, alright?" 

They continued through the dense vegetation, the golden-haired man leading the way. 

======================================================================================== 

He was an enigma really, a man who had suddenly turned up on the archaeological dig claiming to have personal interests in the site. The Professor and the senior graduate students - pushy people as they were - had shown surprisingly little backbone in the face of this intrusion. They probably hadn't even asked for credentials or papers or anything. They'd just let this stranger with his bizarrely mournful gaze walk into the dig, with free access to scan through all the finds. 

Faramir had at first assumed him to be a sponsor. Or a representative of the powers-that-be in the university or the museum or somesuch. But over the week he had mentioned nothing to give away his background, while the archaeological team was still unconsciously treating him like a higher being. 

And where did Faramir fit into this? Well, he was just an undergraduate student who'd been let onto the team as a favour to his elder brother. It didn't really matter that he actually had a great talent for drawing the finds, or that he had a memory better than any field catalogue. It didn't even matter that he was practically the most enthusiastic worker in the department. At the end of the day it was the word from Brian which secured his position. 

"You are Faramir." The stranger had approached him on Day 21. Faramir had looked up from the pottery shards then, taking off his work-spectacles in order to see him better. For some reason, the stranger had seemed _wrong_ standing under the green plastic rainshield; it was as if he had been cut out from an old painting and crudely pasted into a modern setting. 

"That's right." There was a long pause, which Faramir took to be bemusement. "My mother liked Tolkien and had a sense of humour, hence the name. Can I... er... help you?" 

"We did not have a chance to meet, the first time." 

The first time? 

"But yes, you can help me." He reached into his sleeve and drew out a blackened object, wrapped in plastic. To an untrained eye it was nothing more than a burnt leaf; Faramir recognised it as an ornament of oxidised silver, fragile and incredibly precious. "They tell me you found this yesterday morning. Tell me where, exactly." 

So Faramir had shown him the square in the orange-string grid, and had told him at what depth, in what manner, and at what time the specimen had been uncovered. 

The man appeared to be orientating himself according to Faramir's information, and finally looked over into the wall of dense, uncleared jungle. "I see. Of course, the land has shifted since those times, and all is now in disarray." 

"Sure, magnetic north has wandered a little bit," said Faramir tactfully. "I hope you weren't thinking about continental drift, though. Archaeologists don't deal with that kind of thing." _He can't possibly be from the university, then,_ he absently added to himself. 

"Do you know exactly what people, what culture you are studying?" 

"That's still being debated, which is what makes this site so interesting. It ought to be no earlier than South Asian Bronze Age, but we're seeing some external influences here which are really puzzling the Prof. It might be contamination from overlying layers. I hope we'll get a sedimentologist down here soon to tell us how likely that is." Faramir began polishing his glasses on his shirtfront, and chuckled. "Maybe the Celts teleported themselves here. I don't know what to make of it myself, so I'll keep an open mind." 

The stranger looked thoughtful, carefully placing the silver leaf upon a makeshift worktable. "You have searched the ground in three places. But you have missed its centre. You have not looked in the East." 

Faramir raised an eyebrow, not knowing why he suddenly felt persuaded to agree with the man. "In... the East? Is that where we should dig? What would we find there?" 

There was no answer, only a long gaze as if the man was willing Faramir to remember the lines from a book read long ago. 

======================================================================================== 

The site would have to be closed. The monsoon season was coming, the trenches had to be meticulously covered with waterproof sheets before then. It was inevitable that some flooding would occur, but unless they cleared out now there would be nothing left for next year's excavations. 

On the last day, after all the hard work had been finished, after artefacts, figures and notes had been stashed away in the vans, the Professor had driven to the city to sleep in a proper hotel - that is, in a real bed - for the last night. The post-grads had hit the nearest small town's bar, and Faramir heard their slurred cheering as they staggered back into camp in the wee hours. 

He himself had lain awake, unable to push away the nagging feelings of waste. Some of the finds were incredibly beautiful, but that was not what made him regret having to leave. It was just that their like had never been seen before, not here, not _anyhere_ that he could recall. One could not even begin to place them in an age or civilisation, though the others had made plenty of attempts. Plus there was the odd way in which some artefacts were badly corroded (like the silver leaf) while some delicate chain links - which seemed also to be made of silver - were plucked from the ground in near perfect condition. 

Questions, questions, questions. It was unbearably hot in the tent, and punching the pillow did not help. So he pulled off the cotton shirt and rolled onto his side, thinking of the silver leaf. And soon he was inexplicably deep in dreams. 

He was standing on the edge of an island, standing on the polished creamy sands of the beach. Far in the distance was a line of white foam above the jewel-blue seawaters. It grew, speeding closer and closer, growing clearer and taller in his sight, yet perfectly silent. Faramir found himself running inland, up marble stairways and past ivory lattices, but even as he climbed upward the immense wave was higher still, always higher, noiselessly rising over the walls and towers, till there was no sky but a blue crystal ceiling of water, and.... 

"Adan. Adan." 

Faramir groaned as he awoke, and reflexively pushed away the figure that was shaking him by the shoulders. He rubbed his face with his hands, the sleep in eyes making the world even blurrier than it usually was. 

"Adan. We must go to it tonight." 

"Why are you calling me that?" Faramir knew at once who it was in his tent. The stranger crouched before him, his golden head brushing the low-hanging canvas. 

"I call you Adan because that is what you are. Now we must go." In his palm rested a leaf, the twin of the leaf that Faramir had found. Except that this was whole and unblemished, as lifelike and supple as a real leaf from a tree, yet metallically radiant in the darkness. At its tip was a cluster of three stones; one red, one green and one blue. 

Faramir's mouth went dry. "I don't understand." 

"I shall take you to where this was made. At the centre. Now do you understand?" 

"I think I do." The young archaeologist frowned, struggling with the buttons of his shirt. "But... where?" 

"East of here," smiled the man, yet his smile was pale. "You shall see." 

======================================================================================== 

Just when Faramir thought their traverse would prove endless, his companion stopped and swung round to face him. There was nothing to indicate that the place was special, at first, yet an expression of unspeakable longing had appeared on the man's face. Suddenly Faramir realised that he did not know his name. 

"It is here," he murmured. "Here I lived for an age, when it was similarly hidden from the eyes of the world. And here I stayed awhile, when they had all gone over-sea. I should like to see it again, Faramir. I should like to find the grave of Asfaloth, and of Tarninque before him. But I must also find out why I have been called here. Perhaps it calls to you also. Can you not hear it?" 

Faramir found himself trembling, but it was not simple fear. Deep inside the ground he could feel something which resonated, and within himself was a cord that vibrated to it. Slowly he knelt, placed his palms to the ground, and with his fingers began to push away the thick red clayey soil; but no, what he sought was buried too far below to be reached through such clumsy digging. 

"How shall we come to it?" asked Faramir, knowing that he sounded desperate. "I don't want to be here - but at the same time I can't be anywhere else. What is this place?" 

"Karningul in Westron speech," answered the other man gravely. "But you have heard its other name, many ages before today. This was Imladris." 

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End of Chapter 1   
To be continued....? 

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AlexeCinz   
July 2001   
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm 


	2. "... you are part of that truth?"

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~

**~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~**

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Thank you very much for the feedback so far, I was surprised to get such a positive reaction (and incidentally also very amused to be called a 'bonehead'). :D 

To answer some questions, a few other characters will show up, yes. Also, "Adan" is indeed Sindarin, but simply means "Man". I'm afraid the stranger isn't Legolas, but is someone who will be rather underused in the upcoming movies, hence his special role here. Thanks again to everyone, and please enjoy this next part.   


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**Chapter 2: **

It began to rain, a sudden drenching downpour unique to the tropics. All about them the trees shook with the slashing droplets; water pooled around Faramir's knees and the clayey earth began to turn to sludge. But over the rain there was another sound, one that Faramir could only later describe as a kind of shimmering. He turned towards it, and saw the other man's brow knitted in concentration, a luminous quality to his face. 

At his feet, the ground was undergoing a change. The streamlets of water, at first random, were diverting into subtle patterns. They shifted like growing tendrils, no doubt conforming to intricate geometries that lay far beneath the surface. 

"I have come, even as you called." The stranger's words were clear above the noise, for Faramir could hear them in his own mind. "Will you not reveal the summons to me, Imladris? Do we approach another event that will move the world, as the finding of the One Ring did so many ages ago? Is this our Council? But now there is no Elrond, no Mithrandir, no Aragorn. The bravehearted Periannath and Durin's people have dwindled and disappeared even as the Eldar have. That time is gone forever." 

"You are... you must be..." shouted Faramir above the storm, but the words stuck in his throat. For at the periphery of his vision another shape had appeared. It was unmistakably human and seemed almost solid, yet the rain passed through it unhindered, and the trunks of trees behind it were dimly visible. 

Faramir was frozen with horror, but the golden-haired man took a few steps towards the apparition, letting out a cry. "You too have returned - speak!" 

For a moment it stood there, perfectly still. Then it vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving no answers, no comfort for the lost. 

======================================================================================== 

He opened his eyes to see cracked white plaster and the slowly rotating blades of a ceiling fan. He sat up, yawned, and pushed aside the tangled bedclothes, and had already walked to the far side of the small room before his brain kicked in. This was a hotel room, and he was dressed, and he had no idea how he had come to be there. 

There was a note under the door, no doubt hastily pushed in earlier that morning. On it were a few scribbled words: - 

_See you in London! Get well & take a holiday, but remember 27th - cataloguing. P.T_

"Wha - ?" He clutched his head, a few disjointed images surfacing. Wet leaves, wet hair, mud. A few startled, concerned faces hovering above his; a long ride in the jeep... Looking at the note he became certain that he had somehow missed the flight home, and the realisation was quenching. Visions of his cluttered desk and half-finished essays flooded his mind. 

There was a knock on the door. Faramir stumbled over to open it, and all those mundanities evaporated. 

"Are you aggrieved to see me, Adan?" Golden hair and that ever pale, grave face. 

Faramir opened his mouth, then shut it again, feeling dizzy. After the disappearance of the figure, they had made their way back to camp, soaked to the skin. Faramir remembered shaking all the way back, and a few of his sleepy colleagues discussing whether he was going to get pneumonia. There had been no mention of the excursion into the jungle; they thought his tent had merely collapsed in the storm. Hence the drive to the Professor's hotel, where it was agreed that he should not be taking a long plane journey until he had rested. In his sleep his mind had tried to erase what it could not deal with logically. A useless effort, really. 

"No." He sighed. "I am only struggling to understand. My mind tells not to believe, but I've already seen and felt too much not to." He went back to the bed and sat on the edge of it, looking at the floor. "Do you know there is a book? A book which speaks of Elrond and Imladris and the One Ring?" 

"I do know of it." A pause. "And I have read it, seeing familiar names and places printed in a language and time far removed from my own. It was read without joy, not only because it is taken to be one man's imaginings, _fiction_ as you call it, but because I was looking into a past that would never return again. Within the opening pages it tells how it evolved into that form. The writings of Bilbo, the Perian, were preserved. But it does not say why this should be accepted as myth, not as truth." 

For the hundredth time Faramir tried to look for an element of deception in the stranger's voice, but could detect none. "And you... you are part of that truth?" 

"I am." There should have been pride in the reply, instead there was an immeasurable sadness. "I am Glorfindel of the Noldorin line of Finarfin; Glorfindel who dwelt in the House of Elrond." 

  
  


Faramir closed his eyes. As a small child his mother had read 'The Lord of the Rings' to him, and later the well-worn copy had stood on the bookshelf next to 'The Hobbit' and 'The Silmarillion'. Perhaps she had hoped that her son would grow to resemble the young man he was named for. Yet as the flesh-and-blood Faramir grew up, the Faramir-on-paper seemed to cast an increasingly large shadow over him, one that he consciously tried to escape. He had never read Tolkien's books again after the age of twelve. Much of it was forgotten now. 

"Why didn't you... go over Sea?" 

Glorfindel had gone to the shutters and opened them; now he looked out over the balcony and away into the distance. "When the One Ring was unmade all those who had borne Rings of Power felt weary of Middle Earth. I did not; I knew that the places of Elvenkind were fading, and yet I wanted to watch over them, not leave them. I thought I could preserve some of the waning spirit of Imladris, and depart only when its memory was hallowed. I thought this... out of a false hope. 

"For awhile I was not alone. Celeborn of Lorien came also to Imladris, and Elrond's sons were my close companions. However Elladan and Elrohir decided to journey again with the Dunedain, and left never to return. They chose the Doom of Men, as their sister Queen Arwen Evenstar did." 

"What happened to Celeborn?" 

The ceiling fan droned above, the chaotic noise of afternoon traffic rose up from the street. Glorfindel's profile seemed very young, too young for the things he was recounting. 

"He grew despondent and sickened. It was not simply a Ringbearer's weariness of Middle Earth, though I knew that for many years Ring of Adamant worn by Galadriel exerted its power on him also. This was a bitterness that beautiful things should end. He did not leave Middle Earth by ship, as the book claims. He became empty and died. I witnessed it - and I felt certain that I too would wane and lose hope." 

"Then... why - ?" 

"Why did I endure?" asked Glorfindel, finally turning from the balcony. His unwavering blue gaze alighted on Faramir, heavy with a knowledge of ages past. "There is my own uncertainty, Adan. For after Celeborn's death my memories diverge. In one path I fell into a misted vision, devoid of feeling. I placed myself at the council table, on the right hand of Elrond's chair, and grew silent and cold. Perhaps I died. Yet in the other path - " 

"Was history as I know it?" Faramir interrupted him. "Are you saying that you went through everything from the beginning, through Mesopotamia and Egypt and Rome? But it can't be. It can't be. Where does the archaeology of Middle Earth fit in? How _can_ it fit?" 

Glorfindel bowed his head. "First there was ruin, Faramir. First I left Imladris, finding the borders changed without explanation, as if the world had been broken apart and refit by a careless hand. First I realised that while I had sat enclosed within four walls, the Kingdom had ended. Aragorn's line had failed; the Periannath were hunted; the Rohirrim were scattered. After them came men of small stature, very unlike the form in which you appear to me today. I remember crude things, coarse bread, animal fat, mud tablets." Glorfindel took a deep breath as if the memory was painful to him. "I remember wandering through parched lands, sometimes welcomed, sometimes feared, sometimes completely unseen when I wished.   
"Elves do not sleep, yet in a changed world I learned to sleep to chase away despair, for even the stars had become strange to me. Each time I woke, things had changed again, and again. Men flourished in greater tribes than ever before, larger cities than ever before. I learnt some of their tongues; some of those languages fell silent and I forgot them. I have lived on the edges of Mankind, Faramir, like and yet unlike Men.   
"And one day I looked over my shoulder to find the road back to Imladris, and could not find it." 

"Until now," whispered Faramir. 

"Yes, until now," Glorfindel echoed. "But I have not been called back to a happy place. You saw the shade that appeared to us! I believe that there are other remnants of Middle Earth, besides myself. You are one, though you do no know it. We are being drawn here, for good or ill - I cannot say." 

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End of Chapter 2   
To be continued... 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

AlexeCinz   
July 2001   
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm 


	3. "I know you, my dear."

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~

**~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~**

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For the very warm reception M.E.R has received - thank you :) I've decided to write slightly longer chapters each time, so that the fic won't be too disjointed. In this part a few more characters appear (in unexpected ways?). I've taken liberties with one character in particular, but hopefully his story is believable.   
* Just a note - there were several types of Elves, and the Silmarillion goes into detail on that. 'High Elves' like Galadriel and most of Elrond's household were of the Noldor, while most forest Elves belonged to the Sindar. 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

**Chapter 3: **

He was sitting in the shade of a massive solitary oak, his eyes hidden by the sweep of his fringe. With his brown shirt and his brown head inclined, a passerby might have thought him part of the tree. Yet as he suddenly shifted, a ray of sunlight caught the bright golden highlights in his hair, and his eyes were a brilliant green, greener than summer grass. 

He often spent his days in the park, letting time slip by, and thinking of bygone days. His most trusted retainers had all departed, and later even the lesser servants had left also. His son had gone to settle in Ithilien after Sauron's defeat, and then had been the last of the Elves to take ship, following King Elessar's death. How ironic it was that he sailed into the west accompanied by a dwarf rather than his own father. Thranduil, however, had obstinately clung to Middle Earth, more possessive of his woodland realm than any dwarf would be of jewels and precious metals. 

It was no doubt this stubbornness which had enabled him to survive, long after his beloved Greenwood had been swallowed by mountain and wave. Since the breaking of Middle Earth he had avoided the sea, dwelling within fast-shrinking forests or even in the settlements of Men. He had grown used to the ugliness of cities long ago, though his contempt for them was still strong. He likened the skyscrapers to huge thorns springing up from concrete foundations, while the vehicles which sped around them were like so many deformed insects, industrious yet mindless. 

From the very beginning his opinion of Men had been somewhat scornful, and his short friendship with Bard of Dale had been mixed with a measure of frustration. In this Age, his views of mortals had sunk even lower. 

_They have become like the Noldor, only far less beautiful to look on. Self-obsessed, ever building and forging and expanding, certain of their own supremacy._

Thinking this, he found himself on his feet, walking away from the oak towards the red brick building on the edge of the park. There was a public gallery there, where mortal artists displayed their works. At times the displays were wistful and vague, at other times Thranduil found them grotesque and alarming. It was a perverse fascination which made him revisit this place, with its paintings and sculptures that mirrored the pathetic human condition. 

His footsteps were noiseless on the polished tiles, and the attendant did not even look up as he entered. In the foyer, where usually stood a twisted lump of ironwork, there was now a large tapestry of dark grey, with elegant silver forms across it. The pattern pleasing; and under his keen sight the weaving was flawless. 

It was beautiful. 

Thranduil's pace increased unconsciously, and he was drawn into the open hall lined with paintings. A modest sign of mounted cardboard explained that this was a temporary display featuring the work of a fresh young artist who dabbled in painting and sculpture and fabric art. 

The first painting nearly stopped his heart. It was a cluster of _mellyrn_, the gold and silver trees that grew only in Lothlorien and which he had admired, even coveted. There they stood, rendered perfectly on canvas as if the artist had once walked amongst them. In sudden expectation, Thranduil turned to take in the other paintings. One depicted a grassy mound, covered with tiny yellow flowers; in another scene flowed a river with blue mountains rising in the distance. It was as if he were looking out through many windows at Middle Earth. 

And then he saw her, a serene figure in soft grey. She stood by the last of the paintings, her face thoughtful. If you glanced at her only once you would not remember her features. But at some deep unconscious level you would yearn to look at her again, and this time you would be caught. For the more one's eyes lingered, the greater the urge to remain there gazing in wonder. 

Hers was not the face that would front - what was the crude English word? - a _magazine_. For unlike a model's face it did not cry for attention. Rather it seemed as if a veil was drawn over it, and yet there was no doubt that this was the most indefinably beautiful face you had ever seen. Perhaps the most beautiful in the world. 

Thranduil recognised her. He did not fully understand how this could be, since Arwen Undomiel had died long ago, wife to a King of Men. Still, he was certain, as one who has loved from afar is certain. Like many before him, Thranduil had by chance seen her in the woods and had been snared. 

When? Centuries into the Third Age, long before the birth of Aragorn. Legolas' mother had died untimely, and Thranduil had not thought he would ever wish to wed again. All this changed in that moment beneath the canopy of leaves, and the stars of twilight put forth their light. Surely Elrond would not think a Sindarin King beneath his daughter...? But in the end it was Thranduil's own pride, his own fear of rejection which prevented him from pressing his suit. And ultimately Arwen passed into the Doom of Men, beyond his reach. 

_Beyond my reach then, but perhaps not now._

He walked towards her, wondering if her memories were whole, or whether her paintings were but the last images seen in a fading dream. 

======================================================================================== 

There was something... _depressing_ about this ward. Maybe that was why there were more newly qualified nurses assigned here than to any other parts of the hospital. At first the freshness of the job kept them cheerful, but their enthusiasm would inevitably be worn down, and they were transferred out. Some even resigned. The few nurses who had stayed in for over a year already considered themselves veterans. 

It was quiet today, except for the droning voice of a visitor who was reading to his father - for a long while no-one could make out distinct words. Finally he was approached by a young woman who took him firmly by the arm. "Excuse me, sir, but you're really not helping him." 

On the bed, the old man was unmoving, unseeing. He had lain in that state for nearly a decade now, unable to speak or care for himself. 

"Look, Miss, I don't need you to tell me this. I don't have to be here at all. I'm just taking valuable time out of my own life to do this. The doctor said it would be good for him, so I'm just doing it." 

"What are you reading to him?" she asked, and looked down at the cover of the book. "The Silmarillion?" This was at complete odds with the visitor's appearance. He carried a battered attache case and wore the uninspired attire of a minor executive. She blinked, surprised. 

"I picked it up off the reading shelf in the lounge. What? You're gonna nitpick on this now?" He raised his voice defiantly, and in the other beds patients began to moan in complaint. 

"I don't think your father would appreciate it." 

Affronted, the man drew himself up. "I suppose you're trying to tell me that we've got poor taste in reading material, yeah? It says here it's a classic. Or are you trying to say my father won't understand a book like this? Have you read this, _nurse_?" 

"I have," she replied. "And though it's very poetic, it's too sad for a man who hasn't been outside this ward in years. When you read that passage aloud, you were telling him about mortality and loss; how Men face an uncertain fate when they leave the Circles of the World. If you're going to interact with him, tell him about your family, your children... Tell him about how your day was, and what you plan to do over the weekend. Something that will make him want to wake up and live life." 

The man glared at her a long moment, then threw the book onto the table and picked up his case. The visit was over. Moments after he left, a thin-lipped doctor came in through the swing doors and took the young nurse aside into the cleaner's room. 

"I think you need a refresher course in nursing, Miss Owen. You've forgotten that your job is to comfort family members, not give them aggressive lectures on trivial matters. That man's father is fending off death." 

"I think I _was_ doing my job, Doctor. And if I were that elderly man, lying there with no chance of recovery, I'd rather be dead." 

The doctor's face pulled into an expression of disgust, deliberately exaggerated. 

"No," continued the nurse, "I don't believe in prolonging his existence. This isn't _life_, it's indignity. It's suffering. If his mind were still functioning, he wouldn't want to be a broken puppet lying in a hospital bed." 

The doctor's eyes were stern, unforgiving. "So are you saying, Miss Owen, that we should 'put him down'? Perhaps you'd also like to see us euthanise all coma patients and everyone over the age of 55 too. Why not throw in a couple of quadriplegics while we're at it?" He adjusted his glasses over his beaked nose. "With... repulsive ideas like those, young lady, I think you might find you're in the wrong profession." 

"You're twisting my words." For a moment her colleagues eavesdropping outside thought she would make a further retort. But her resolve finally seemed to weaken, and she turned away. "Maybe you're right," she said. "This is the wrong profession for me." 

She returned to the long ward looking pale. Nursing had been a family vocation, at least for the women - the men took on policing and occasionally military careers. Everyone had believed she would make an excellent nurse. For a while she had believed it too, but while still in nursing school doubt had developed in her. She had not lost her pity or kindness to her patients, yet with time there grew an inner exhaustion. Slowly it would eat into her soul. 

Walking back to the elderly man's bed she picked up the discarded copy of The Silmarillion and thumbed through its pages. "Perhaps you _did_ want him to read this to you. I'm sorry." 

As usual, the old man did not reply, his skewed gaze fixed on the ceiling. 

"Couldn't you... couldn't you give me a sign which chapter you'd like to hear?" 

His eyes were cloudy, his mouth slightly open. Suddenly, as she leant closer, it seemed a film was lifted from his irises. To her intense surprise, the orbs moved by fractions in their sockets, till they looked straight at her. With aching slowness his jaw shifted, and he moistened his lips. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly rich. He said: 

"I know you, my dear." 

======================================================================================== 

There was an awkward silence. 

"Maybe it was one of those cases where air passes through the larynx and it sounds like the patient's talking...?" 

It was the end of Nurse Owen's shift, and she stood at the doors with her hands in her coat pockets. "No, I didn't imagine it. The words were very clear. And he looked at me, I swear." 

The other woman nodded hesitantly. "Well, I'll watch him carefully tonight. If he shows any other signs I'll tell the doctor that you noticed them first." 

"Thank you Maria. I'm off now." 

"See you tomorrow." 

The hour-long bus journey and the walk up to her apartment were uneventful, as always. A few months back when she had been on a later shift, she had often run the obnoxious man on the third floor - he was constantly trying to ask her out, no matter how many times she refused. Nowadays she hardly saw him, though now and then he still put absurd little notes in her mail. 

She took off her coat and changed out of her uniform before flopping into the big easy chair. She was hungry, but too tired to cook. For no particular reason she reached out and switched the television on, just in time to catch the news. There was complete chaos onscreen, and as the reporter squinted into the camera huge flames erupted in the background. 

_"... the fire seems to have started about an hour ago, but as you can see, has already reached an unstoppable intensity. Firefighters have been battling the flames in the east wing with little success. Though evacuation in the other wings is under way, it's feared that hundreds in the east wing may have already died... "_

She froze as the camera panned the scene, and the all-too familiar building appeared, wreathed in fire. It was the hospital. 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

End of Chapter 3   
To be continued... 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

AlexeCinz   
July 2001   
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm 


	4. "This is indeed our Council..."

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~

**~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~**

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

I'm glad that people seem to be enjoying this little work, and I hope that it will continue to entertain. :) Thank you for the feedback so far! 

Just a few notes: 'Edain' is the plural for 'Adan'. As for why Imladris isn't in Europe: Tolkien himself placed Imladris at the latitude of Florence, but the speculation here is that Middle Earth has been "broken" and reformed, and I thought it would be more interesting if Imladris appeared in a place we didn't expect.   


________________________________________________________________________________________ 

**Chapter 4: **

Glorfindel lifted the coin to the light. 

"I would always take the silver counters, and Erestor would take ebony." 

Some time that afternoon they'd found an old compendium of travel games wedged in the drawer, no doubt abandoned by he room's previous guests. There was the standard issue tiddlywinks tray, a snakes-and-ladders set and a draughts board. Since Glorfindel did not want to revisit the jungle till after sunset, Faramir had suggested playing chequers in half-jest, without suspecting that there was a great enthusiasm for board games in the elvish temperament. Most of the plastic counters were missing, so they'd substituted with coins - silver for white and copper for black. 

"Did you have this game in Imladris?" asked Faramir, surprised. 

"A game like it, but with a much larger board and different rules. A single game might stretch over many days." He smiled, perhaps the first smile free of melancholy that Faramir had seen on his features. "With Erestor, I won so often that he grew morose." 

Faramir recalled something in The Lord of the Rings about the childlike qualities of elves, and smiled also. He knew, somehow, that there had been few opportunities for Glorfindel to reminisce about Rivendell without sorrow. 

"Did Men not play this game in Gondor?" asked Glorfindel, and in the very next second looked profoundly embarrassed - he could see Faramir was disturbed. "I did not give thought to my words. I am sorry." 

Faramir spent a few moments pretending to study the board. He made his move, and then looked up. "I'm not really the Faramir of the book; I've only borrowed his name." 

"That is the caution I would expect from Faramir 'of the book'. But there is no need to doubt, Adan. You would not have heard the summons of Imladris otherwise." There was a little click as Glorfindel placed the coin in its square. "And there is an image draped about you which I saw from the beginning." 

Faramir hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to hear more. "What do you see?" 

"Numenor. The island made for the Edain to dwell upon, as reward for their stalwart defence against evil. Elendil, Isildur and Anarion were born there. And it was from Numenor that they escaped, when the day of destruction came." 

By Glorfindel's hand was a glass of water. To Faramir's amazement he thought he could see a lip of liquid rise from the surface. It rolled to the wall of the tumbler, nearly over the rim, and broke itself against the glass. At once the water became completely tranquil again, leaving Faramir to wonder if it had merely been an illusion. 

"I've had a recurring dream since I was very young. It always begins on the beach, and I'm looking out over the ocean. But a huge wave approaches, so high that it covers everything, and I see the underside of it as it blots out the sky. I used to think that was how Atlantis was destroyed... and maybe that's why I became an archaeologist. But of course Atlantis was only a legend." 

"That is how Numenor ended," said Glorfindel. "Men became proud and wilful, thinking they could challenge the very powers that carved out the world, and their punishment was swift. But Elendil and his sons were spared because they were true-hearted. Their ships were washed to the shores of the greater continent, and there they founded the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor in remembrance of their lost home. Thus are all Men of Gondor sprung from Numenorean ancestry." 

"I - " Faramir stopped short. An abrupt disquiet had fallen on him, the same strange pressure that he had felt two nights before. In the open air it had been an alarming sensation enough; here in the claustrophobic hotel room it was overpowering. Across the table the elf stood, his eyes darting about the room. Finally they settled on the balcony, where steam was rising from the wooden planking after another shower of rain. There was a shape in the steam, growing more opaque and defined till a man clearly stood there, tall and grey. 

"Will you not speak this time?" said Glorfindel. His question held a note of command. 

The shape flickered, as if it were produced by an old projector with a failing bulb. For a moment they thought it would vanish as it had before. When its lips moved, no sound issued from them, but they felt a terrible urgency emanating from it. 

_A ringwraith,_ thought Faramir, and the figure looked straight at him, shaking its head, as if Faramir had spoken aloud. For a moment he quailed, but then his fears dropped away, replaced by a hazy recognition. 

"Mithrandir?" Glorfindel was saying. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the table's edge. "_Olorin?_" 

The figure continued to speak soundlessly, Glorfindel watching his lips to catch the words. Now it flickered for the last time, unable to hold its image together, and as it faded it raised its hand to draw a circle in the air. Then the balcony was empty once more. 

Faramir leant back into the wicker chair, drawing a deep breath. He felt exhausted. "It was Gandalf, I was sure of it... And yet he looked wrong, somehow." 

"The Gandalf that we knew was only a cloak he donned for his appointed task. His true form is as a _Maia_, Olorin." 

_Many are my names... Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkun to the Dwarves, Olorin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten._

"What did he say?" 

"That this should not be. That Middle Earth - as I knew it - should have been separate from this world. He was speaking to us from far away." Glorfindel was evidently troubled. "I... I told you that my memories diverged, Faramir, but I had not thought..." 

"What, Glorfindel?" 

The elf's expression was distant, as if he were struggling with a truth too awful to bear. "This is indeed our Council, Faramir, ill-timed and with only the two of us. We shall receive little guidance from hereon. Tonight I will go back to the site, to collect what remnants I can. You must rest; tomorrow we will be travelling away from here." 

The words were enigmatic, but Faramir was unwilling to ask for more. He had a feeling that soon the answers would be thrust upon him, whether he wanted them or not. 

======================================================================================== 

The news that morning was dominated by reports of the night's fire. The latest pictures showed the aftermath - in place of the blue and white buildings, there was now a smouldering husk. Despite sprinklers, fire doors, fire-retardant walls and the gallant efforts of the fire department, Mount Caron Hospital was now a collection of cinders, crawling with men in uniform. The death toll had not been determined, but it was likely to be high. It had all happened so suddenly, and the cause was still a mystery. 

And so it was that Nurse Owen made her her way not to work, but to her colleague's house on Claverton Street. Maria's husband had called earlier that morning - apart from having inhaled too much smoke, Maria had managed to escape unharmed. In fact, both the press and investigators were waiting for her to recover a little before they could question her. They now suspected that the fire had initiated from a location very close to the ward where she had been working. 

"Mr Asenjo, hi." 

The harassed-looking man had only opened the door a fraction; at the sight of the blonde woman he made a little sound of relief. "It's you, Evelyn. Come in, come in. I thought it was reporters." 

She stepped through and saw Maria hovering in the hallway with a weak smile. She embraced her friend. "I'm so glad you're alright." 

Maria acknowledged this with a nod, but her eyes held tears. "I tried to help patients out of the ward. But I don't think... many people got out. Just too many stairs, you know?" 

They went into the kitchen, where they sat silently for many minutes. Finally Evelyn spoke. "I don't know if this is the best time to say this, but I'm quitting the job." 

This seemed to rouse Maria out of her blank expression. "What? You're giving up nursing?" 

"Yes. I think I've been waiting for a sign, and if anything, this is it." 

"But what will you do?" 

"I'm not sure yet. I might go to my uncle's place - he runs riding camps over the summer and there's always a need for extra help. At least I'm not paying off loans, I got my training on a scholarship." 

Maria sighed. "I was getting tired myself, but with the hospital destroyed I may not be working for awhile." 

"You deserve the rest." 

Maria looked off to one side. Then something occurred to her. "You were right about the old man." 

"Sorry?" asked Evelyn, confused. 

"Mr Laird. He did wake up... I was in the nurse's station when he walked out of the ward. I was so surprised I didn't know what to do. I think I tried to stop him... And then I saw smoke pouring in from God knows where, and heard the sprinklers going off, and there was chaos after that..." 

"He escaped the fire, then?" 

"Oh, I hope so. He just... just _walked_ out without help. It was... kind of frightening." She pulled absently on her dressing gown, and Evelyn gasped as the cotton robe shifted to expose Maria's arm. There were four parallel welts just beneath the elbow, each about three inches long and half and inch thick; the skin was red and blistered. 

Evelyn rose. "Where's your first aid cupboard? It's a terrible burn - why didn't you dress it?" 

"I - I didn't notice. I don't remember being burned..." Maria's voice had been growing fainter and fainter throughout the conversation, and now she was virtually inaudible. Her last words were "I'm sorry" before she lost consciousness. 

======================================================================================== 

_The spirit's essence is like oil, needing a vessel to contain it. When spilled from the body it is formless and impotent, easily dispersed and lost. Only when gathered into one can it be lit. _

The old man laughed at his own thought, so absurdly highflown it sounded. He was still heady with the rush of exhilaration at leaving the hospital, but even that was ebbing away. Now he was a jumble of mundane wants and cravings that needed to be fed. Like those little cigarettes with red bands, he wanted lots of them; and he wanted a juicy dripping steak, all blood and fat and charcoal. In his head were more desires than there were memories... 

A few passers-by stared at him, sitting on the bench in white pyjamas, the rest ignored him. 

_Contempt is a luxury for the powerful._

He gave a little chuckle, his wrinkles accentuating. The face of the nurse appeared in his mind, her blonde hair pinned up neatly, and her smile full of pity. But no - there was a different face above his, a man's face smeared with dirt and tears. His steel grey eyes were hard. 

_This I will have as weregild for my father, and my brother - !_

Gripped by the vision, the old man shrank against the bench. He was falling backwards into a bed of soft grey ash, sliding down it with the red sky far above... 

"Are you lost?" A woman with polished brown cheeks and wavy black hair was standing in front of him. "You look lost, mister. Do you need to get home?" 

"I don't know _you_, my dear." 

"No, you don't." She spoke very slowly, with the kind of patience that people always reserve for small children and the elderly. "But it doesn't matter. I'll walk you back, okay?" 

_Back - ?_

She reached out to take his frail arm, and as she did so something gleamed on her finger. It was a ring, an ordinary ring, plain and unadorned and made of impure gold. And suddenly, he remembered. 

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End of Chapter 4   
To be continued... 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

AlexeCinz   
July 2001   
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm 


	5. "... why not other lands of Middle Earth...

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~

**~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~**

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This part took much more time to type than to write, due to unforeseen problems with fanfiction.net :) The mystery of the old man is revealed here, while Glorfindel and Faramir set off on their own quest. I hope to bring in Thranduil (and his relevance to the story) in the next part. Thank you all once again for your kind comments on this fic - all I can say is that I am very very grateful.   
Also, a small correction to the notes in Part 4 - Tolkien intended for Imladris and Hobbiton to be at the latitude of Oxford; it was Minas Tirith that he placed at the latitude of Florence. 

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**Chapter 5: **

_I remember. _

I remember a minute spark, the remnants of my Will as my towers crumbled and crushed me. Formless, powerless, defeated. The vessel that contained my spirit had been shattered. Voiceless, mindless... until I could find another vessel that would bear me. 

  
  
"What's your name, sir?" asked the policeman, and shook his head when the old man remained unresponsive. "I won't be able to help him if he doesn't say anything." 

The woman bit her lip in thought. "He was better when I found him on the bench. I think he's from the hospital. The one which burned down? That's why he's in shock." She glanced at her watch and gave a little gasp. "I have to go, I'm late." 

The policeman thanked her unenthusiastically as she left, and then turned back to the old man, who was smiling in an unnerving way. 

  
  
_ I remember the making of the Ring, how the gold - stripped from the vein - turned to liquid light within the crucible. Tongues of flame leapt up around me, licking up the my hands and about my wrists; yet they were but servants to my own greater flame and could not harm me. _

For I am a spirit of Fire, and I scorch those who approach me; I am an all-seeing Eye, and my sight rips through those that would hide from me. I am Maker, for it was I who forged the Ring and its companions, I who instructed the smiths of Eregion. I am Destroyer, for it was I who broke Elendil like a rotted branch, while Gil-galad withered in my hands as a leaf in a furnace. I cast down Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond; I slew Celebrimbor who made the Three Elven Rings; I ground to dust Earnur and a thousand mortal kings before him. 

  
  
"What's your name, sir?" he repeated slowly. Then he frowned and sighed. "Okay, sir, you just sit there, and we'll see if any calls come in about you." He picked up a few papers and flipped through them idly. 

_To the Numenorean fools I was Annatar, to the Sindarin cowards I was Gorthaur._

"Wait - did you say something?" The policeman leant over to give the old man a long searching look, while a sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead. "Man, it's getting warm in here." What he saw in the old man's eyes made him step backward in sudden panic, upsetting the pewter ashtray on the corner of the desk. 

Much later, firemen would find this twisted ashtray, and say that a cigarette, falling onto the papers on the desk, had probably started the blaze. They would find only one body in this office. By then, of course, the old man was long gone from the scene. 

======================================================================================== 

After an interminable number of rings, someone picked up. "Hello?" He was surprised to hear a woman speaking, someone that he did not recognise. Several half-formed theories sprang up in his mind, mostly involving cocktails parties. 

"Hello. I'd like to speak to Brian Stewart?" 

"Alright. Hold on." Another long wait. Faramir spent the time looking anxiously around the hotel lobby; Glorfindel still had not returned from the archaeological site. 

"Hello?" The voice on the end of the line was deep, confident, and perhaps a little annoyed. 

"Brian, it's me." 

The tone changed at once to delight. "Faramir. How are you? How's the dig?" 

"It ended a few days ago. But I'm still onsite - I have some things to do." 

"A bit unfair of them to make you stay behind, isn't it? I'd better have a _word_ with them." 

"No, I'm staying out of choice, Brian. Listen, could you do me a favour? I'm supposed to return to London by the 27th of this month, but I don't think that's going to be possible. The Professor won't be happy about it, so could you... er...?" 

"Plead leniency for your absence?" guessed Brian, doubtfully. "What are you doing out there, Frim?" 

Before calling his brother, Faramir had prepared a less-than-truthful answer, but all at once he couldn't bring himself to use an outright lie. "I can't really say. But it's important. Even more important than finishing the academic year." 

"You're not in trouble, are you?" A hint of anger crept into Brian's voice, directed at the unknown enemy. "You know how smugglers always target archaeologists. I told you to always check your bags in case those drug - " 

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm on a personal mission. Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't let Dad know." 

There was a snort. "Mmmm. If it's so important, I'll keep your secret. But you'd better tell me everything when you get back." 

"I'll try." 

"Go do what you have to then. I'm on important business myself, but don't worry, I'll speak to your department. Stay in one piece and give me another call whenever you're able. Goodbye." 

Faramir hung up the payphone to find Glorfindel unexpectedly sitting in the large cane chair nearby. "I checked out half an hour ago. I almost thought you weren't coming back." 

Glorfindel shook his head. In his arms, like a quiet baby, was a small bundle he had brought back from the ruins, wrapped in layers of soil-stained cloth. "Early this morning I went far out to the river, where fishing boats are moored. There is a boat which will take us down to the river mouth, and from there we must find an ocean-going ship." 

_To go over sea?_ thought Faramir, with an ironic smile. Aloud, "Where are we going?" 

"To a chain of islands," Glorfindel replied. "Come, Faramir, the vessel awaits us." 

The vessel turned out to be a narrow-bodied boat made from wooden and white-painted aluminium sheets, about ten times as long as it was wide, and the fisherman who owned it was a tanned little man with yellow teeth and expressive eyes. He grinned as the two passengers came aboard, and his grin widened when Glorfindel spoke again to him in his native tongue. He motioned them to sit in the bow, threw Faramir's suitcase under the aluminium hood before Faramir could stop him, and then went to the back of the boat to prime up a very noisy outboard motor. Soon they were chugging away down the river. 

It was a meltingly hot day, but sitting at the front of the boat meant that there was a constant breeze in their faces. Maybe because of this, the boat did not smell quite as much of fish as one expected. About half an hour into the journey the fisherman rummaged under the aluminium hood and produced two cans of mango juice, offering it to his guests. Glorfindel obligingly took one and said a few words; Faramir recognised the phrase for "Thank you, I like this very much" and repeated it, much to the fisherman's delight. 

Just when Faramir thought there would be no surprises, the man began singing. It was a pleasant, chirruping tune, and the fisherman had a strangely high but melodious voice. 

"What's he singing about?" asked Faramir, almost moved by the man's enthusiasm. 

"Fish in the river," laughed Glorfindel. Then he sobered a little. "Simple joys, Faramir, simple joys." 

The student archaeologist raised an eyebrow, then looked back towards the fisherman again, who was launching into yet another song. For a moment he wondered if the elf was hinting something. 

At last they reached the open sea. The boat veered off to the right towards the docks, where they would find transport for the next leg of the journey. At the concrete unloading bays they said their goodbyes. The fisherman added a few words which made Glorfindel nod gravely, then hopped back into his boat and cheerfully made his way back upriver. 

======================================================================================== 

The only ships heading in the right direction were cargo carriers. Faramir and Glorfindel boarded a smallish specimen bound for Sumatra; its Captain was a man whose attitude towards passengers and passports was unusually relaxed. They were offered a crew cabin, with bunks that Faramir found comfortable enough; Glorfindel preferred to walk along the deck each night and observe the heavens. Faramir's sleep was interrupted by peculiar dreams of underwater gardens and stone fountains which issued bubbles of air. 

On the first day they travelled slowly, passing some old sand bars offshore, and by the second day they were well under way and at cruising speed out on the open water. Now it was the third day, and they had covered hundreds of miles of the Indian Ocean without a break in the scenery. As they stood on deck waiting to catch the first glimpse of the islands, the first mate unexpectedly left the bridge and came to talk to them. He was a short man with eyes like coals and a roughness about him, but he spoke English well, with a pleasant hybrid accent. 

"The Captain is willing to make a brief stop just off the islands, but not to approach them too closely. The waters are too shallow for our ship. One of the boys will take you in on a small craft." He glanced towards the south, where the islands had become dimly visible through banks of low cloud. From this distance they looked flat, like cardboard cutouts. "No passenger ship would take you there. The Captain thinks you are eccentric tourists." 

_But I don't,_ was the implicit statement. 

"Anyway," he continued. "Take a sailor's advice and watch out when you're on Apihitam. They tried to build a fuel depot on it once and things went badly wrong." 

"So are there going to be live wires still around? Spilt fuel?" asked Faramir. 

"Maybe. But I meant watch out for the things which made the plans go wrong." 

"We shall be wary," said Glorfindel. "Thank you for your help." 

The first mate went back to the bridge, leaving them to stand on the port deck watching the islands as they grew larger and darker. The northernmost island, Apihitam, had a distinct profile, with a central mountain which was much higher than any on its companion isles. For some reason, there was something about its shape which Faramir disliked. But it was not until they were within a mile of it, and preparing to stop, that he saw the mountain clearly. It rose starkly out of the mist, steep-sided, streaked black and grey. 

"It's a volcanic island," said Faramir, feeling chilled even under the hot tropical sun. 

"Yes. But it has lain dormant for some time, or so I was told." Glorfindel was still holding his bundle, and Faramir saw his slim pale fingers tighten on it. 

Twenty minutes later they were in the 'tender' - a motor-powered dinghy with rubber sides but a fibreglass bottom - speeding towards the shores of Apihitam. Apart from Faramir's battered case, the tender also carried a wooden crate. This contained a survival kit meant to be kept on one of the ship's lifeboats; the captain had thrown it in with the passenger fare as a kind of joke. Faramir wondered how Glorfindel had found money to pay for everything so far, and decided to leave the question for later. 

With the mountain looming over them, the tender approached what looked like broken-up tarmac, but was in fact a beach of dark grey sand. As they alighted, Faramir bent down to check the straps on his case, and saw that there were millions of shards of black volcanic glass mixed in with the sand grains. Anyone trying to build sand castles here would most likely shred their own hands in the process. 

"See you here in three days." The crew member who had driven them across was already pushing off the little boat, not overly keen to linger. Soon its engine was only a far-off stutter on the wind. 

"This isn't a very popular place, I see." Faramir faced the mountain, unwilling to have his back to it. 

"For good reason," said Glorfindel grimly. "It is inhospitable and remote, and that is enough for the superstitious to keep away." He knelt to study the ground. "There is also discontent here, deep and pervasive; I do not know its origin. For the moment I sense nothing more, no greater malicious forces, and that is a relief in itself. Still, in these three days we must search as thoroughly as we can." 

"You still haven't told me why we've come here. I can only think that it was by Gandalf's instruction." 

Glorfindel's face looked very pale against the dark beach. "Mithrandir gave us a warning, and I have heeded it. If Imladris has resurfaced, why not other lands of Middle Earth? We have travelled further south than we would have done in my time, but we shall see if my guess has struck the truth." 

Faramir's own suspicions could no longer be quelled, and a leaden weight seemed to form in his chest. "Other lands such as - or should I not speak its name?" 

_Mordor._

"You should not," replied Glorfindel. "Not when we may be standing on its buried husk." 

As they spoke, Faramir thought he saw a streamer of smoke at the top of the mountain. He gave the elf a wry smile. "Maybe a volcanologist is what you need." 

"No," said Glorfindel. He began unwrapping the bundle, the dirty outer layers dropping away to reveal magnificently preserved embroidered fabrics. There was a flash of silver, a glint of blue. "I need _you_, my friend." 

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End of Chapter 5   
To be continued... 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

AlexeCinz   
July 2001   
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm 


	6. "Till tomorrow, fear not stray nightmare...

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~

**~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~**

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Chapter 6 goes up amidst problems with ffn - hopefully the site will remain stable, because it would be a shame to waste the treasury of fanfiction which I've found here -_-;;;   
I am indebted to all reviewers for their continued interest in M.E.R - your praise has been overwhelming (especially since I am an amateur writer) and I only hope to keep telling this story in the best way I know how, dedicated as always to the enduring work which is LotR. 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

**Chapter 6: **

"Just old tree roots." Faramir got up from his examination of the mystery object, dusting off his knees. 

All afternoon they had made a rough reconnaisance of the fringes of the isle, paying especial attention to the eroded areas around streams. Now and then Glorfindel had seemed to consult the metallic instrument nestled in the bundle, but said nothing. Along one river they had come upon a line of large holes in the grey-green rock, but these were insignificant and they had continued onward. 

They moved northward, but found no artefacts. Not a trace of settlement thus far, not even of the fuel depot mentioned by the cargo ship's first mate. Faramir was more relieved than disappointed. Eventually they returned to the beach to set up a rough camp, laying out Faramir's sleeping bag on the beach beyond the high tide mark. By this time it was early evening, and they opened the wooden crate to unpack the supplies. It held assorted foodstuffs which Glorfindel examined with an air of resignation, a few gallons of purified water in white tankbottles, and a large cylindrical object of stainless steel which Faramir recognised as a watermaker. They left the waterproof blankets sealed in their plastic wrappers, and the whole array was arranged in a rough pyramid over the empty crate. It cast a long shadow as the sun went down on Apihitam. 

"Has today been wasted, then?" asked Faramir, tiredly climbing into the sleeping bag. 

Glorfindel's reply came without hesitation. "No, it will be best if we find nothing. Still, my heart misgives me, and we have covered little of the island. Tomorrow we must traverse further in." 

"Up the mountain...?" 

"Yes." The elf sighed, the sound mingling with the wash of the waves. Then he added cryptically,"Till tomorrow, fear not stray nightmares." 

A cool wind swept over them, damp with seaspray. Arranging his makeshift bed, Faramir leant back and began to drift off. It could have been an ordinary day at an archaeological dig - except for Glorfindel's voice, almost inaudible yet entirely captivating, as he began a conversation with the southern stars. 

======================================================================================== 

_He is too young, too young... _

The Men of Minas Tirith must find their strength early. If not we, then which of the pathetic nations of this age would face the evil? Let not youth become excuse for weakness. He shall spend the night in the East-facing Tower. As his elder brother did. And as I did before him. 

But were you so young when your father tested you? 

I was. 

Was Boromir? 

  
The dark-haired little boy could hear the voices, low as they were, for this tower was empty of all comfort and warmth, and sound carried easily within its unfurnished stone chambers. He had serious grey eyes, large and long-lashed - once or twice he had overheard elderly serving-women say that there was a great likeness to the Lord Denethor in his childhood. The boy had blinked, surprised, for it was difficult to imagine his father as anything but stern-faced and tall, a grimly handsome figure in black and silver. 

He went over to the window, not wishing to hear more of the unhappiness in his mother's words, or the steel in his father's. Already it was dark, with stars beginning to wink at him from the highest part of the heavens, while on the horizon was a spread of crimson. He let his eyes cross the river, over the dim ruins of a city the boy had never seen before, and beyond into lands which few spoke of. There was a pale shape amongst the shadowy mountains, almost like an ivory tooth. 

Yet even as he strained his eyes to look, its blunt tip moved. The boy shrank away from the window, suddenly afraid, for he thought it resembled a face, turning slowly to survey its domain. And when he stumbled to one side, as if he could hide from the distant terror, he caught a brief glimpse of something even further beyond, a tiny red pinpoint in the jet-black night - 

_He shall see the empty shell that was Osgiliath. And behind it, a pale tower that was once Minas Ithil, once fair and moonlit; now it is Minas Morgul, desecrated abode of phantoms. His courage should not waver - **must** not waver. He is the son of the Steward of Gondor._

The darkness seemed to seep outwards; it knew him, mocked him, wanted to claim him. If it could swallow lands whole, what would it make of a five-year-old boy, locked into a bare lightless room? Did he cry out, or did the sound die in his throat as he pressed his small hands to the walls? 

And then the door opened, yellow light from the candle filling the room - and the familiar scent of roses enveloped him. It was his mother, warm and soft, her blue mantle sweeping round him as they embraced. He could feel her racing heartbeat, and knew that she too was afraid to be here; then in the next moment she took him by the hand, leading him towards the stairwell. They descended quickly, the candleflame flickering. 

His father stood at the bottom of the stairs, framed like a statue beneath the stone arch, dark circles around his unforgiving eyes. 

_Faramir. You disappoint me._

  
  
Faramir awoke with a start. The predawn sky was a mournful grey-violet, thin sheets of cloud stretching over the horizon. For a moment he was lost, caught between dreaming and wakefulness, but a cool hand on his shoulder steadied him. 

"How do you feel?" Glorfindel sat beside him, cross-legged, the bundle still in his arms. Faramir knew the elf might have stayed watching him all through the night, and felt almost embarrassed. He hunched over, the muscles in his shoulder cramping, feeling as if he had not rested at all. 

"Terrible." Then ruefully, "And hungry." 

Glorfindel handed him the roll of digestive biscuits from the survival pack, and then turned to study something on the ground. This was the instrument that had been hidden for most of the first day, a silver and blue disc about three inches across. Atop it was a fine rotating needle, and it swung this way and that, indecisive. Faramir realised that it was a compass, the inlaid letters on its edges indicating north, south and east - the west was marked with a luminous white stone. _How _he could have read those letters did not occur to him till afterwards. He wondered if it would ever find its bearings, or if the needle would spin on its axis till the end of time, pulled by the invisible forces of a fragmented Middle Earth. 

"It has not yet attuned to the land below," said Glorfindel, divining Faramir's thoughts. There was a significant pause. "But perhaps you have, even if the compass has not." 

_ - desecrated abode of phantoms - _

The young man looked up sharply, almost expecting to see wan marble walls superimposed on the present-day ocean. What were dreams? Suppressed memories that escaped the brain's prison, or were they windows into other lives, just as death was the doorway? Trapped somewhere in his mind was a man of Minas Tirith, and before that a man of Numenor; like so many Egyptian coffins, one within the other. And suddenly he remembered yet another dream of his - half riddle, half command - which had set Boromir on the path to Rivendell. Once upon a time. 

"I said there was great need for you to be here, not that it would be easy. I did not mean to deceive." 

"I know..." Faramir broke a biscuit into three pieces. "... I know." 

This was one of the dividing lines between Elves and Men; sleep and the visions it brought. Men were the aftercomers, weaker, coarser, more easily cowed by darkness. Maybe it was fitting that, in the darkness of slumber, they should be guided along hidden paths otherwise barred to them. Paths that might also be barred to Elves. 

The biscuit was dry and fairly tasteless. Faramir washed it down with water, and even then it stuck in his throat. He extracted a second biscuit from the packet, breaking it into even smaller fragments than the first. A shower of crumbs scattered onto the ground, mingling with the sand. _Just like broken Middle Earth,_ he thought, and glanced at the compass. The needle described a full circle before quivering to a stop. 

And beneath their feet the ground stirred. 

======================================================================================== 

The man in the brown shirt and white tie ran up the steps of the gallery, cursing at his watch. He strode round the paintings in the entrance hall once, twice, and then began pacing diagonally from one corner to the other, cursing some more. 

"You'll have to keep your voice down," said the gallery attendant. "And objectionable language will get you thrown out." 

"Have you seen a young woman in this gallery? Dark hair, grey dress...? I arranged to meet her here." 

The gallery attendant gave the man a hard look. "You mean Miss Helen Lucien, the artist? Yes, she was here." His eyebrows twitched at the brown shirt, as if noticing it for the first time. "But she, er, left about ten minutes ago. With a man in a brown shirt." 

======================================================================================== 

_Well met, little one, you were not expected!   
Green and blue pass us by while the world is broken.   
Tom's house went wandering, taking Tom with it,   
And my pretty lady stays where the water's clearer.   
Time crawls slowly here. Have no fear! Draw nearer!   
Circles should not join together, Eldest remembers   
Those that left lands behind, those that sailed o'er water.   
And Evening which comes again: Arwen, Elrond's daughter!_

  
  
Fifteen years or more after, the odd rhyming quality to those words was indelible, though everything else about the memory was hazy. She'd been a child then, wandering in the forest near her grandmother's house, in search of... something. 

"Are you troubled?" 

"No, I was only thinking back to my childhood." Once more she glanced briefly on his brown shirt, with faded patches at the elbows, and at the dark blue-grey trousers. The latter looked as if they had once been denim, but since then the material had been worn so smooth it had an almost silk-like sheen in places. This was not the polished exterior one expected from an art dealer. Or at least, not from the person who had spoken to her on the phone, oozing synthetic charisma. And she had thought he would be older - someone who would take pains to dress young, rather than actually be young. Instead of telling her about the string of glitterati he had rubbed shoulders with, he walked quietly at her side with his face upturned to the sun. 

He suddenly turned, his eyes alarmingly green, and a different image of light pouring through a leafy canopy came back to her. It tugged on the edges of her mind, then flitted away before she could fully recall it. Strange. 

"I'd like to paint you," she said, without thinking. 

"A likeness of me - " The tone of his voice rose slightly, as if in delight and bemusement together, yet he did not smile. 

They found themselves at the edge of the artificial lake in the park, where there was a small cafe set up under an old summer pavilion. She came here now and then, and the waitress recognised her, giving her a bright smile. "Just for one?" 

"No, for two, this time." She looked to see if the man had wandered off in the interim. He was still there, his expression placid. 

When they were seated, the waitress leaned over. "Would you like some tea or coffee while you wait?" 

"While I wait?" 

"For your friend to arrive." 

Across the table, her companion was shaking his head. 

"Tea then, thank you." 

The waitress scurried off. 

She looked over at the next table, where a middle-aged man in a suit was drinking from a tall mug; he turned to meet her gaze and the corners of his mouth tweaked up in the beginnings of a grin. Then abruptly his face became dispassionate - breaking away inexplicably, he became intent on his coffee. 

The man in brown smiled for the first time. "Like the deer of Greenwood, they cannot see us if it is not our wish." The words had a haughty nonchalance to them, but he sounded uncertain, and his expression sought approval. "Is it your wish, Arwen Undomiel?" 

Any illusions she held of his being an art dealer had evaporated. "You seem to believe you know me. But I do not know you." 

"I know you to be one who has walked in Laurelindorenan and Eryn Lasgalen. And though I have spoken to you but few times, can you not remember them? Do you not remember this silver ring fit for a Queen? I begged you to keep it in friendship, for I could no longer gift it to you in love. And yet you refused me." He raised his left hand slowly, with the ring on his finger that was in the shape of a chain of leaves. "Will you refuse me this time, Lady Arwen?" 

Her eyes dipped to the grass stains on his sleeves. "Someone once called me by that name, but it is not mine." 

He flung down his hand in frustration, and the silver ring flashed for a moment. "What name cloaks you in the present, devised in the crude language fit only for mortal tongues? _Helen_, after the most beautiful of human women. But where are they now, those poets who created the myth of Helen of Troy? Where are the uncouth shepherds who left their flocks and olive groves, to wage war over a face they had never seen? She was nothing, nothing." There was a distant bitterness in his expression. "You are Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond. Those that went over sea are lost to me, for Eldamar is hidden in the far West and unattainable even to an Elvenking. And Men once perished are said to dwell with Iluvatar, removed from the Circles of the World. Yet against the Doom of Men you are returned. I care not how, only that I have walked alone too long." 

Pale reflections of white ships and lavender skies flickered around him. It was if he could bend her vision to see images of his making, just as he could wordlessly persuade the people around them to ignore his presence. 

"They say all artists wish to escape this dull world," she murmured, as the phantom ships grew even more vivid than the pavilion they sat in. "But I feel as if I have wished for escape in past lives, always running, always - " 

Without warning the images began to smoulder and disappear, like glowing embers burning through paper. She saw him look up in horror, past her shoulder into the space beyond - and then she felt it too, the soundless anguish of countless trees bursting into flame. 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

End of Chapter 6   
To be continued... 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

AlexeCinz   
August 2001   
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm 


	7. "Have you come for me?"

~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~

**~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~**

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

A slightly longer chapter this time, as things start to happen. I'm posting this from someone else's computer, as mine has become spectacularly inaccessible. :) As usual, thank you for the reviews; I wasn't able to reply to all of them, but I hope your questions will be answered within the story itself.   


________________________________________________________________________________________ 

**Chapter 7: **

She saw Thranduil rise from his chair, his eyes wild with something that lay between fury and fear. The park was no longer full of trees, but full of silhouettes curling in the blast of heat. There were sharp reports like gunshots as treesap heated beyond vapour point and burst explosively from blackened trunks. 

_And this is how I would fashion the end of Elvenkind... an end to those craven, tear-eyed children of regret. First, to consume all that they have known and loved, then to hunt the skulking remnants down, one... by one... by one... _

It was a mere whisper, emanating slyly from the heart of the fires like the harbourer of secrets. Helen turned away to shield herself, so full of malevolence were the words, but there was little time to ponder their meaning. In the next moment she felt Thranduil take her arm, and they began running, running from the searing heat , running from the flames which devoured their way across the grass. The fire relentlessly surged forward in pursuit. They leapt across a narrow ornamental stream, over flower beds, past rows of shrubs that began to crackle only seconds behind them. 

"Arwen - " He was half-dragging her now, his long light strides pulled back by the frailty of her human legs. The flames were close now, ineluctably close, spitting our sparks which singed her long hair. 

_This is how I would repay you, King of Woodland Fools, for suffering me as your neighbour in Dol Guldur._

The torrent of flame heaved upwards and then crashed over them, and Helen suddenly knew the pain of dying, the pain of feeling layer upon layer of skin, fat, flesh, stripped from one's body. Beside her, beaten to the ground by torment, lay Thranduil. He was a mere outline in flickering orange and yellow, yet there was a point of incandescence brighter than this, and it issued from his finger. 

She fell forward, and somehow wrenched his hand towards her; in his convulsive pain he was almost too strong to be forced, and the sight of her own burnt hand seemed unreal. In one motion she plucked at the source of the light - 

  
- and with agonising slowness it slipped off his finger, now but an ornamented silver ring that steamed slightly in the cool breeze. 

They both lay on the grass for a long moment, stunned by the abruptness of the ending. There was no fire, no insidious voice, no pain; without the ring to channel them, the illusions could not persist. The park was as mundanely pleasant as it had been before, ordinary people paying them no heed as they walked by. 

"A silver ring fit for a Queen..."Thranduil laughed harshly, and shifted to look at Helen, who had warily set the ring down on the ground. His face still seemed impossibly youthful, but more lines had been added to it. "If I had but known its origin, I would not have treasured it so." He reached out as if to take it, then stopped, closing his fingers in a fist. "No - some part of me _did_ know. For it was captured from a orc-hoard, and I knew that among their treasures were spoils from Eregion. " 

"Eregion?" 

"There lived the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, the Ringsmiths. It was they whom Sauron instructed and deceived. Save the Three Rings which Celebrimbor forged alone, all their works were tainted by him. And this, no doubt, is one of those lesser rings... I have been a fool not to see." Now that remorse had been vented, there was an unmistakeable undertone of anger in his voice. 

"But perhaps... Arwen saw." 

Thranduil gazed at Helen as if seeing her for the first time, his lips parted slightly. "Then I must not be foolish again. That voice - _his _ fell voice. For centuries the ring was powerless on my hand. Why should it turn now, unless its maker still lived? Somehow _he _has crawled up from the dust, and knows that I too have survived." He became silent, unwilling to continue. 

Helen continued for him. "And through you, he knows of my existence, whatever that means to him." 

"It means much. You are Elrond's daughter, descended from those he loathed and feared most." 

"Then I cannot run, not this time." She studied his face, searching for understanding, and saw deep unhappiness. "Can we find him?" 

In that moment when the flames had been hottest, when the ring had betrayed its true nature and Sauron's unguarded hate, Thranduil had seen a black mountain from afar. More strangely, there had been a brief image of flowers, their petals lusciously red. 

"Yes." 

======================================================================================== 

He walked alone through the excavation site, now and then kicking away the green tarpaulin sheets which covered the ground. He was jetlagged from his journey, on edge, frustrated. This was not meant to happen. This was not meant to happen... 

"Faramir, you bloody idiot," he said with feeling, and crushed his cigarette into the earth. 

It had been nearly five days since his younger brother had called, babbling about important personal missions and whatnot. Over the pho he had managed to convey vague brotherly concern, letting some indulgence slip into his voice. But it had taken all Brian Stewart's self-control not to lose his temper then, and still more afterwards not to go into blind panic. He feared that his brother had somehow been caught in local gang business. He feared that the young man was idealistically - stupidly - trying to put things right. And most of all, in some vain selfish way, he feared that Faramir had finally discovered the truth about his admired elder brother. 

His mobile phone tweeted shrilly in his pocket. Brian cleared his throat, hoping his voice would sound steadier than he felt. 

"Brian... Brian... They let me know you're in the neighbourhood. What brings you here?" 

"I'm sorry, Mr Anghe. I have to ask you... a favour." 

A pause. "A favour. Really?" 

Brian swallowed and pushed on. "My brother was on this last dig. I don't know if I told you before - " 

"And?" 

"And he's deviated from the schedule. He didn't clear out. I was wondering if... if your men might have come across him..?" 

There was a little huff of breath from the other end of the line. "Difficult. Difficult, Brian. It's a little matter. I don't keep track of little things, Brian. You know that." 

"Yes, I understand completely, Mr Anghe. But please, I just want to make sure that none of your men mistook him for... an outsider. I can't do business without him in the department, you understand." 

This seemed to register with Mr Anghe, and he made a little noise of assent. With the abrupt change of mood he was known for, his tone became friendly. "You are at the site? Very good. I'll send a man to pick you up and take you to one of my hotels. I don't want people to think I don't know how to treat my people right. After that... after that we sort out where your brother is." He paused. "You know who to wait for." 

"You're very kind, Mr Anghe, thank you - " But the conversation was already over. Brian walked away from the main excavation, back out to the small dirt track leading to town. There stood a wooden post with illegible words scratched onto it, and he leaned against it, his face in his hands. The exchange had been a brief one, but Brian felt he had come through a great trial. 

Twenty minutes passed, and he looked at his watch, considering whether to retreat to the shade of the trees. Just before he moved off, a figure appeared at the end of the dirt track, and he stopped. The figure grew ever closer, and he saw that it was some man in a suit. Several hundred yards behind him was a black limousine; evidently the chauffeur was reluctant to subject the car's suspension to this dirt track and had parked it on the main road. They had to be Anghe's men. It was unthinkable that anyone not sanctioned by Anghe could be prowling around the area, especially at this time. 

The man's angular Eurasian features surprised Brian, but not as much as the absolute blankness on his face. His clothes looked slightly ill-fitting, his broad shoulders too large for the jacket. 

"Have you come for me?" asked Brian. 

A nod. With mechanical steps he traced his way back to the car, this time with Brian in tow, and then opened the door for him. 

There was already someone in the other passenger seat, an old man with bleared eyes. He looked as if he were far away, drugged even, and seemed to pay no heed as Brian sat uneasily beside him. He was toying with something in his hands - a red hibiscus blossom - and ripping its petals up in tic-like movements. 

"My luggage is still at the Rivera Hotel. Are we going to see Mr Anghe now?" 

The chauffeur was mute; in the reflection of the rear-view mirror his expression was vacant. 

Brian scowled and turned to the old man, who now had a scatter of red confetti on his lap. "Are you going to see Mr Anghe too?" He hardly expected a response. 

The old man's lips pulled back in a smile, and Brian noticed two things - that his bare feet were caked with mud, and his white hair was streaked with soot. 

_Yes._

======================================================================================== 

The earthquake had lasted no more than twenty seconds, perhaps half a minute. Faramir brushed himself off, groaning, and looked over at Glorfindel, who was miraculously on his feet. The pile of things from the survival pack had tumbled down, and the elf was ankle deep in tins. 

"Worse than a ride on the Tube," said Faramir, thinking of London's dilapidated underground train system. "And that's saying something." 

It was a poor joke, but there was an acute need for humour. He knew that there were always tremors before a volcano was due to erupt. How long before was another matter; it could be weeks, days, hours. Even to his untrained eye the volcano looked _wrong_, as if it had been deformed by internal forces, and cracks had appeared along its southern flank. He exhaled slowly. 

"The mountain is servant to its master." Glorfindel's face was ivory pale, except for a thin line of blood where something had scratched the skin of his cheek. "Always has Orodruin rekindled at Sauron's rising." 

Faramir met the elf's gaze in an instant. They had agreed to not to invoke the names of sunken Mordor, and to hear Glorfindel break this was a shock in itself. When Glorfindel raised his hand and pointed, he received a second shock. 

There was the largish mound of loose silt about a hundred metres from them; they had climbed it the day before in order to sight a route up the volcano's slopes. Now part of the mound had slid away in the quake, leaving a concave surface, and exposed in the black-brown silt were spindly forms. The fossils spanned ten feet or more, criss-crossing each other as if frozen in mid-dance. Even from this distance Faramir knew what they were, and what they represented: Mates maybe, or children, the kin of Shelob. 

Before other emotions could kick in, Faramir found himself running towards the mound, Glorfindel following close behind. There was no active menace around those skeletal remains, yet few could have looked upon them without a frisson of fear, if not terror. 

"I don't like this." Close-up, the serrated edges of the legs were all too clear, and measurable in inches, not millimetres. From his experience Faramir knew the soil around them was young and unconsolidated, and the fact that these specimens were so close to the surface meant only one thing. He looked at another leg, its spiny hairs intact and bearing a green iridescent sheen. Fossils could not preserve pigmentation. These were the real thing, and recent. "Spiders shed their... their exoskeletons, as the grow, don't they...?" 

"Yes." Glorfindel motioned him away from the molted husks, and despite his outer calm there was a tautness about him, a preparation for unseen enemies. "Are you afraid?" 

Faramir smiled lopsidedly. "Of spiders? Not the house and garden variety, no." He suppressed the incongruous thoughts of _Charlotte's Web_ and focused on the first mate's story of the doomed fuel depot. "This is different." 

Indeed, like a spider's web, all the elements were drawing together in Faramir's mind. So far, his experiences had an ambiguity to them. The dreams of the past, Gandalf's appearance - these had been disturbing yet distant. The discovery of Imladris had inspired as much hope as it had shattered his idea of history, yet it was just a ruin. Even Glorfindel, no matter how solid he appeared, retained an elusive quality. 

The spider husks were a more brutal reminder that all the spokes were converging on something greater and more insidious. 

"Sauron has risen." 

He wanted to ask how much time they had, what it was they had to do, how it was that Sauron could rise again. Indeed, what was meant by 'rising'? What form would he take? 

"Need you ask?" 

_Glorfindel doesn't know._ The realisation was daunting, and Faramir shook his head vigorously as if to clear the uncertainties in it. "That volcano is going to erupt soon. We'll need to get off the island quite quickly." 

"The ship returns for us tomorrow. I do not think we are in peril yet. We can wait another night." 

Faramir remembered the elf's sleepless vigil on the beach, guarding the relics of Elrond's House in their cloth-wrapped bundle. No doubt that had been enough to ward off lesser evils. They should be cunning enough to know that an elf-lord would make no easy meal. 

As if to mock them, the ground shuddered again. 

======================================================================================== 

Evelyn awoke in the middle of the night feeling uncomfortably warm. She got out of bed, the cotton pyjamas sticking to her back, and made her way to the kitchen in the dark to get a glass of water. Perhaps she'd had nightmares, but she seldom remembered her dreams after she woke up, and she'd lived alone for so long that nothing scared her. 

_I'm just restless, that's all. I'm driving to my uncle's place tomorrow, and I'm glad... need to get out of this depressing rut._

But did she really want to go to her uncle's? He was kind, and he would - kindly, of course - remind her constantly that she had trained to be a nurse, and would always be a nurse, and should be returning to nursing after the summer. 

_We'll see_, thought Evelyn. The table was littered with sheets of newspaper, with red circles drawn around a random array of temporary positions. Unfortunately, being a junior secretary was likely to bring even less joy than tending to the ill. She switched on the light and began idly flipping through the papers. The third page carried a picture of a burnt-out building, with calls from the fire department for a greater awareness of fire hazards, more stringent safety checks. The building turned out to be a storage facility at the city airport. 

There seemed to be fires everywhere. Or was it just that Evelyn had become more sensitive since the destruction of the hospital? She sighed, emptied her glass and prepared to turn off the light. 

A strange noise arrested her, and she paused by the lightswitch. There it was again, a kind of rattling. It came from the door of the apartment, and before she could react there was a soft click as the bolts drew back. She was no longer alone in the apartment. 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

End of Chapter 7   
To be continued... 

________________________________________________________________________________________ 

AlexeCinz   
August/September 2001   
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm 


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